


Wait For It

by agenderleadingplayer



Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Implied/Referenced Smoking, M/M, and yes the oboe makes an appearance, based off the book thief, because fuck you that's why, ernst is max, hanschen is liesel?????, idek why bobby's in here tbh but i needed someone for hanschen to hate, implied/referenced drinking, jewish!ernst, spot the hamilton references there are Many
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 14:03:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5499857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agenderleadingplayer/pseuds/agenderleadingplayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>World War II Hernst AU based loosely off of The Book Thief.</p><p>Hanschen is informed that he will be hiding Ernst Robel, a Jew, in his house as a favor for his father's friend.</p><p>Of all the things he expected to happen, falling in love with the Jew was certainly not one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wait For It

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from the hamilton song of the same name.
> 
> so basically ernst is max and hanschen is liesel i guess??? if you've read the book thief that makes no sense but....
> 
> also i suppose this story is still told by Death as it was in the book, but Death doesn't really talk so much (aka at all) about...being Death in this one. i did try to emulate the narrative style, though.

His mother called him into the kitchen while he was still brushing his teeth. He checked his watch: not even eight thirty. His mother, name of Edith, didn't even usually get up until at least an hour later than this.

This must be serious, he figured with an eyeroll.

What had he done this time? He’d bought as many potatoes as four _pfenning_ could get him at the market yesterday; he’d avoided getting into any fights in the past month, give or take; hell, he’d even kept his A up in math this semester.

His name was called again. She'd used his middle name.

This was _really_ serious.

Hanschen traipsed slowly into the kitchen, finding his mother and father sat at opposite ends of their small wooden table, not wanting to meet each other’s eyes. The boy took a seat.

“What’s so important?” he asked cautiously. “It’s not even eight thirty.”

No one said anything for a good minute: worried glances were exchanged between the parents, perplexed ones occupied the face of the child.

Finally, his father spoke, leaning forward on his elbows and resting his chin on his hands. “Do you...remember,” he started, “my friend? From the war? We were…”

“The one shot to pieces on a grassy hill in 1917?” Hanschen remarked to the table, immediately regretting it. “Sorry; he was Jewish, right? What did you say his name was again?”

“I didn’t.” His father cleared his throat, then went on. “Robel. Friedrich Robel. Yes, I suppose ‘shot to pieces’ is an accurate way of putting it…” His story was finished with a sad chuckle and a sigh. “Anyway, I...we need to do a favor. For him.” He looked to his wife for help continuing, and Hanschen could see the evident worry in his eyes.

“Karl,” she whispered. “Tell him.”

Another sigh. Karl seemed to be waiting for his son’s usual cocky response. Sensing the tension, that’s exactly what he got.

“So why should I care? What favor can you do for a dead man anyway?”

“Not Friedrich, Hanschen...his son.” Hanschen still seemed perplexed. “Friedrich’s son Ernst was born about five years after the war. He’s currently in hiding, but...he’s going to come stay with us. He ‒”

“How long?” Ernst Robel, a Jew, in their house.

Hanschen had nothing against the Jews at all; in fact he was strongly opposed to the new “cleansing” efforts the Nazis had decided to employ on the population of Germany. The problem? People always found out. He didn’t want those people to be the ones to take them all away, as well.

Karl sighed. “As long as it takes. Maybe until the war is over. We can’t...we can’t really tell at this point. You just...you just have to promise not to tell anyone about this, okay?”

“I’m nearly eighteen, Papa; I know how it works.”

“No, Hanschen: _no one_. Not your teachers, not the priests, not even that girl you like at school.”

Hanschen scoffed. “Thea? No, I don’t...I do not like Thea. We’re just friends.”

“Well, not even your friend Thea then. Or any of the other students at school, for that matter. You tell anyone that we are hiding a Jew and the consequences are worse than severe, _verstehst_?”

“Yes.”

“Good. He’s coming two days from now, and we need to get our basement ready. I can put some sort of shelter together…” Karl trailed off. The conversation seemed to be over.

There was another minute of worried silence.

“Can I...go to school now?”

***

Before this story officially starts I’d like to get one thing down first:

This story will not end happily.

If you’re one for a happy ending, I’d say leave now. There’s nothing for you here.

Not that I don’t want you here, of course; I’m nothing without an audience. But I, for one, have a streak of disappointing people that I’d like to try my best to break.

Another word of warning:

This story will come to you in bits and pieces, as stories often do. Sometimes you’ll meet people you get introduced to later. Sometimes you’ll start in the middle of a conversation, and end even further into the middle of another.

But what can I say? I’ll say this once, I’ll say it again: I don’t write the story, I simply tell it.

So why don’t you come along?

I’ll show you something.

 ***

Ernst shivered, his brown hair shaking with him. “Could you...do something for me?”

Hanschen's eyes widened, and he nodded. “Of course.”

“I haven’t been outside in...well. How long…?”

“Three...three and a half weeks.”

Ernst nodded solemnly. “Can you...go outside? Tell me what the weather is? Sorry…” He looked down, embarrassed to have asked for any favor at all, even for the simplest of things. Hanschen stood up.

“Don’t apologize. Don’t. Apologize…” He ran up the steps, opened the door, and stood in the cold for a minute or so. He barged down the basement steps.

“There’s no snow,” he started, sitting down next to Ernst, “but it smells like there might be later tonight. The sky is white, or gray, kind of; it’s like...there’s one big cloud over the whole sky. But you can still see the sun, just barely. It’s peeking out like...like it’s seeping through, almost.”

Ernst smiled for the first time since he’d arrived. “Thank you.”

They sat in silence for a while. Hanschen got up to leave.

“Goodbye, Hanschen.”

“Goodbye, Ernst.”

 ***

“How did you know?”

“Papa told me, the day you arrived.”

“And you remembered?”

Hanschen offered only a shrug in response. “I, um...got you something.”

“No; Hanschen…”

Before Ernst could protest any longer, Hanschen produced a small paper bag. Inside was a large, red-covered volume of Edgar Allan Poe poems and stories and a small glass bird.

“Why the bird?”

Another shrug. “It made me think of you.”

“And the book?”

“Same.” Silence. “Oh, and...one more thing…”

From inside the paper bag, Hanschen pulled out a small bouquet of flowers it was evident he had picked himself.

“No, Hanschen, I can’t have these down here; they’ll die.”

“That’s all right. You can press them, too, if you like.”

“How’d you get these?”

“Unimportant.” He’d stolen them from their neighbor’s garden. “You needed something special for your birthday. I know it’s not much, but…”

He was surprised when Ernst pulled him in for a tight embrace, able to feel the smooth glass of the bird pressed into the small of his back. “I...I can’t thank you enough, I’m…” Ernst pulled away; there were tears in his eyes. The two boys looked at each other silently, just studying.

“I...I better get upstairs…”

“No, that’s all right. Thank you, Hanschen.”

He turned around and walked up the basement steps, clutching the now-empty paper bag in a closed fist.

He’d made Ernst cry.

He’d looked beautiful.

 ***

For those of you not particularly well-versed in the tendencies of Nazi Germany, let me take this moment to spell a few things out for you:

  1. Hiding a boy Jew in your basement in the winter of 1941 is dangerous.
  2. Being in love with said Jew in your basement is doubly dangerous.
  3. If you yourself are a boy and you are in love with the boy Jew in your basement, well.



So I spoiled the story for you. They fell in love. But what did you expect? I told you it would be sad. If I've learned anything at all from humans, it's not sad if there's not love.

We should backtrack. When did Hanschen first realize the love he possessed for the hidden Jew, you may be asking. Yes, that's a good place to start. The beginning.

Ernst had arrived on a rainy October afternoon, shivering from the cold, his skin pale and his eyes wide. Karl was the one who had opened the door for him, but Hanschen did not stand far behind his father, his safe blond hair peeking out from behind the man’s lanky frame.

The Jew was welcomed into their home, promised an equal helping of food every day, though Ernst protested. He was to be set up in the cellar, on a small extra mattress Karl and Edith had had in their closet. That first day, he slept all through the night and well into the morning. By two thirty, Hanschen was sent down to check on him.

The basement steps creaked, and Hanschen made his way to the sleeping boy. He knelt down next to the thin mattress, looking the parts of the Jew uncovered by the blanket up and down, trying to gauge an estimated time of awakening. He didn't have to study him for long.

The Jew awoke with a start and immediately started shivering. It was cold in the basement, even without winter in full swing yet. Ernst reached over and clamped his hand onto Hanschen’s forearm, a hungry vice.

There was a period of silence, of just looking: from Ernst’s hand to Hanschen’s arm to each other’s faces. The two boys did more talking without words than anyone, it seemed. Ernst’s hand quaked on Hanschen’s pale skin, and the brunet finally decided to say something.

It was a statement, spoken as a question:

“I’m safe?”

Hanschen didn't know how to respond. There was a Jew in his basement who had just slept for nearly twenty-four hours, waking up shivering from the cold and clamping his hand down on Hanschen’s arm, and these were his first words to him?

All he was able to offer was a slight “Hey,” a word whose tone resided in the affinity of “It's okay, you're fine, I think you're safe, yes, can you take your hand off my arm now? It's starting to hurt.”

 ***

“Your cheeks are all red, Hanschen.” The blond nodded, not sure where this was going. “Can I have a weather report?”

“Hold on,” was the response; Hanschen ran outside, grabbing a fistful of snow in his hand. The December air nipped at his skin. He should've worn gloves, he thought as he bounded down the basement steps once more, the snowball behind his back.

“Close your eyes.”

“Sorry?”

“Close your eyes,” Hanschen whispered with a laugh. Ernst did as he was told, and Hanschen dropped the ice into the Jew’s hands. Ernst shivered, then chuckled, opening his wide brown eyes into Hanschen’s.

The brunet looked at his hands, still holding the snow. “I haven't seen snow in over a year,” he mused. Then, “I don't know what to do with this. It'll melt.”

 ***

Ernst awoke to find a pair of ice-blue eyes staring him in the face.

“How long was I…”

The boy wasn't able to finish, as Hanschen had thrown his arms around him and pulled him into a tight, warm hug. “Three days,” Hanschen said into his neck, his voice breaking. He hoped Ernst couldn't hear. “We weren't sure you were going to wake up.”

Ernst pulled away and Hanschen took a long look at the Jew’s face. He hadn't eaten for nearly half a week, and his cheeks were starting to hollow. His skin seemed to be turning grey. But his eyes were still so wide, and so brown – they reminded Hanschen of a deer’s eyes: constantly open, looking around for danger.

Hanschen took Ernst’s hands in his own, looked down at them, studied the thin fingers. “We thought maybe you were…” He didn't say it, but he knew Ernst could hear the word, ready to be dropped in his lap, a jumbled mess of letters. “Dead” is a four-letter word, after all.

“Hanschen,” the Jew said, smiling sadly at his blankets, “I didn't come all this way just to die on you."

 ***

Ever since Ernst woke up from his three-day sleep, a new ritual of basement-going was implemented: Hanschen would go down every day as usual, and the two of them would talk about something, or nothing, or everything in between. Sometimes a weather report would be given. Sometimes a story would be told.

Then, however, at some point during their talks, Hanschen would take Ernst's hand and gently weave their fingers together, and even after their conversation had finished, they would stay that way, hands held, studying the curve of each other's fingers or the feel of each other's knuckles. Hanschen would stand up, make an excuse. Both boys wanted it to last longer.

“I have homework,” or, “Mama’s expecting me,” or simply, “I should go. Goodbye, Ernst.”

“Goodbye, Hanschen.”

***

“Ernst?”

“Hmm?” They were sitting side by side, after one of their scheduled post-conversation hand-holding sessions.

Hanschen debated going further; curiosity got the better of him. “Was there ever...anyone?”

Ah, the age-old question. A sad one, too, if you think about it.

The answer, of course, was no, the statement given with a sad laugh and a look down at the two boys’ interlocked fingers.

“No one?” Not said, but thought, involuntarily, out of the corner of his mind:

“Really? Especially someone as beautiful as you?”

Another head shake from Ernst, another sad smile, small glance at the two hands. The Jew figured he could return the favor.

“Did you ever have...anyone?”

What could he say? Naturally, you expect the happy-ending version of this story, where the lovers’ feelings are revealed and all is well.

“Well, there was one person…” Hanschen might say, embarrassed, but determined to go on anyway.

“What was she like?” Ernst will reply, assuming a suitor of the female gender.

“He,” Hanschen will correct, and Ernst might be taken aback; this boy is significantly less Aryan than he’d thought.

Of course, we know that Ernst feels just the same, but that part isn't up now. Not yet.

“He was...he is beautiful,” Hanschen will say, stealing feverish glances into Ernst’s wide deer eyes, searching for the hint of recognition. “He had soft brown hair…”

The story might progress, and at the end, their lips will meet in true happy-ending fashion.

But the Aryan boy is in love with the Jew in his basement.

There is no happy ending.

“No,” Hanschen answered softly. “There was never anyone.”

Ernst nodded. What did he expect him to say anyway, he wondered. “Yes, Ernst, there was, and he is you and I love you”? Foolish. The blond-haired, blue-eyed boy does not fall in love with the rotting Jew in the cellar. Be realistic, Ernst. You hopeless romantic. You sinner.

Hanschen slipped his fingers out of Ernst’s, about to go upstairs, when he cautiously put a gentle hand on Ernst’s face.

Looking back, it didn't mean all that much; what was a simple hand on the face meant to accomplish anyway? Ernst probably thought it odd.

God, it pains me how much they love each other.

The German and his Jew, hiding together in a basement. How romantic.

Except it’s not really that that hurts, not really.

Let me show you something:

**_Hanschen’s diary, January 1942_ **

_He reminds me of a bird. I know I've said that before, but it hasn't gotten any less true. There's something I can't place about him, though. Maybe it's the way he holds himself, like he always wants to ask me something but is too afraid to._

_He always apologizes to me, and I keep telling him not to, keep telling him it's all right. He never seems to believe me._

_We hold hands now, when I visit him downstairs. I’m not quite sure what that means. Tonight, right as I was about to head upstairs, I put my hand on his face. I don’t know what that means either._

_Papa told me, long ago, what it might feel like if I ever met a girl: he said I’d feel all...warm around her and things; I’d be in love. Naturally, I rolled my eyes, knowing that I’d never feel that way about anyone._

_But I think – I’m not sure; I think what Papa described feels like this._

_And that’s dangerous. Because it doesn’t matter in the slightest how blond my hair is, how blue my eyes are; if I’m found, if this journal is found, I’m finished. I get a train ticket and a pink triangle and I’m gone._

_I guess I’ll have to hide this book quite well, then._

_Anyway._

_He’s hard not to look at; I’m not positive that makes complete sense. But sometimes I glance at him and I can’t stop looking._

_I think...I think I find him beautiful._

_I’ve never felt this way – about a boy or a girl – before._

_Jesus, I’m in love with the Jew in my basement._

***

So that’s how he figured it out. Maybe not as exciting as you’d expected, but don’t blame me. I don’t write the story, I simply tell it.

Perhaps you’ve gotten impatient with me. I’ve already told you the ending; maybe you’re thinking of skipping ahead. “When do they get together?” you’re perhaps asking. “Why can’t they be happy yet?”

And, listen, I agree. But I promise, we’ll get there. You’ll want to keep reading.

Let’s get back to the basement, shall we?

The tray was cold in Hanschen’s hands, and he couldn’t see the stairs in front of him, which might have posed a problem had he not memorized this journey by heart. The steps felt more natural to him than the back of his hand.

He reached the corner Ernst now called home, and Hanschen was welcomed not with a greeting, as he usually was, but by peculiar, new sound:

Crying.

The blond-haired boy slowly pushed aside the curtain which separated the cool basement air from Ernst’s mattress. The Jew looked him in the eyes, and the sight of him made Hanschen want to cry as well.

So what did he do?

You might think he’d wiped away Ernst’s tears with a shy thumb, captured the Jew’s lips in a long-overdue kiss, like he so wanted.

He didn’t.

Instead, he set the tray down and bolted up the cellar stairs, shutting himself in his room, a pen and his diary immediately in hand.

I, personally, don’t really understand the benefit of a diary. It’s hard to keep up with. Takes too much time.

It is, however, a nice touch if you’re in love.

**_Hanschen’s diary, February 1942_ **

_Today I went down to bring him dinner and he was crying. I don’t know why, and I didn’t ask; I just ran back up the basement steps. I feel terrible. I need to go down there and ask him what’s wrong._

_The most interesting thing about all this, though, is the feeling. His crying made me want to cry as well, because...because. I’m not sure I can stand the thought of him not being happy._

_And he has every right not to, of course: he’s Jewish and he lives in our basement. We’re found out, he’s dead. But...I don’t know, I just…_

_I need him to be happy._

_God, I’m starting to sound like a girl._

Hanschen then went on to describe the past school day, acting as if the incident in the basement had never occurred to begin with. Why? Perhaps an alibi: “Hanschen what are you doing locked in your room for all those hours?” “Writing, Papa.” “Writing _what_ ?” Hanschen didn’t like to lie. Well, he _liked_ to. He was just very bad at it. Growing up an only child can do that to a person: no sibling to blame things on.

However, I think Hanschen’s diary cover-ups were due to a different reason. Let me make you another list.

**Some Facts about Hanschen Rilow:**

  1. He did not tell anyone anything about his feelings. He despised emotions.
  2. Why? He was probably scared. That’s how most humans work.
  3. He had done this for so long that he had walls up. Not tangible ones, of course, but they were very very real. They were always up, and for a while he was sure they were never coming down.
  4. Then the Jew arrived.



Hanschen Rilow wasn’t a fan of feelings. Ernst made him feel indescribable.

You can probably tell now that this isn’t the best combination.

But we’ll leave the German’s emotional instability for now; let’s get back to the story we all came to see:

“What’s this?”

“Read it later, when I leave for school.”

Silence.

“Ernst?”

“Yes, Hanschen?”

“Can you...tell me a story?”

It was perhaps the simplest of requests, but Hanschen was as wary as if he were asking Ernst to take a bullet for him.

“I think...I’m all out of stories, Hanschen. I’ve told them all to you.”

“Then tell me the one about how you arrived here. It’s my favorite.” A nod from the Jew.

“I can’t tell you how long I was stuck in that warehouse…”

The story progressed as he’d told it the various times before that: to a book, to a train, to a key and a promise. It ended as it always had.

“I walked miles from the station to here, but you welcomed me with open arms and I cannot thank you enough.” Ernst looked into Hanschen’s eyes, and the German was crying. All Ernst could do was pull him into a hug.

**_Hanschen’s diary, February 1942_ **

_I should’ve thanked him. I keep meaning to tell him things and I never do, and it hurts. I should’ve thanked him._

Thanked him for what? you may be asking. What would the German possibly have the Jew to thank for? Well.

Thank you, Ernst.

For what?

For making me feel like something.

***

The stairs creaked in the heavy black that was the night, and Ernst’s breathing was ragged, his face caked with dry tears.

The Jew, climbing up into the light. It was three in the morning.

Why?

A thank-you note.

**_The note Hanschen had told Ernst to read_ **

_Ernst,_  

_I’m sorry. I saw you crying and I didn’t do anything about it, and not only is that bad manners, I feel terrible now. I didn’t ask you what was wrong. I should have. I’m sorry._

_The thing that makes me feel all the worse about all this, though, is that I don’t think I can stand the thought of you not being happy. I don’t know what that means. And, obviously, you have every reason not to be, considering your present situation, but I still feel horrible._

_And you don’t have to tell my why you were crying, that’s okay. Unless you’d like to, of course. I don’t know. I’m sorry._

The Jew clutched the folded-up note in his fist, having read it over and over since Hanschen had left for school. He would’ve thanked him at dinner, but Karl had brought the tray down instead.

So now he was fumbling his way through a darkened house, one thought on his mind:

_He needed to know, he needed to know…_

Hanschen’s bed creaked as he rolled over, slightly startled by the pair of wide, dark eyes staring him in the face.

“Ernst…?”

“Sorry, I…”

“Shh it's okay, don't apologize, I just...why are you up here?” The moonlight was just bright enough so that they could see each other's faces. Ernst looked at the ground by way of reply.

Hanschen slid out of bed next to him, and Ernst looked up. The German placed a hand on the brunet boy’s cheek, asked it again, softer this time:

“Why are you up here?”

There was a beat. “I…” Ernst looked down again, seemingly collecting himself, then looked Hanschen in the eyes. “I wanted to thank you.” He produced the note Hanschen had written him, now crumpled. The other boy took it in both hands.

“I wanted to…thank you in private, ridiculous as that sounds,” Ernst continued. “It just…” A deep breath from the Jew. “You meant it? All of that?”

Hanschen’s hand had found its spot on Ernst’s face again, and the blond boy offered a small nod. “Of course,” he said. He felt like he was going to cry.

“I suppose,” Ernst said quietly, his voice soft and wary, “that I feel...the same for you.”

Hanschen having feelings? Impossible. Someone having feelings for Hanschen?

“You can't be serious.”

There was another long instance of silence and Hanschen gently toyed with it, a cat with a ball of yarn.

The cat, the bird. The German, the Jew. The boy, the other boy. Unnatural? Sure. Sing it with me: “Love doesn't discriminate…”

Anyway.

The silence, it seemed, had started closing in on them. Hanschen was really crying now, for the first time in a very, very long time. He figured he'd better say something; he wasn't sure what. The silence got closer. His hand remained on Ernst’s face.

He looked in those doe eyes and started crying harder and he wasn't sure why, only that he was so _close_ to him and somehow needed him even _closer_ , had never wanted anyone this bad in his life, for some reason didn't care that he couldn't want this boy, could die if he let slip that he wanted this boy.

Had it been anyone else, Hanschen would have thought it Romeo-and-Juliet-level sickening. With Ernst it was different. With Ernst it had always been different, and for some unknown reason he needed Ernst to know all this, know he felt...whatever this was so _deeply_ and _sincerely_ and…

His hand had been on Ernst’s face too long for comfort now. In the end, it was the Jew who broke the silence: 

“You're crying. What…? Hanschen –”

It was three in the morning. They were both tired, both crying, both not at all ready to admit that what was happening was happening. Maybe it was the moon. Maybe it wasn't. Either way, what happened next…

“God, you're beautiful…”

Hanschen leaned forward and captured Ernst’s lips in his own, kissing him so deep and so long they were both sure that when they pulled away nothing would be left.

Something was left.

It was two crying boys in the corner of a bedroom, it was moonbeams on the windowsill, and, as little as Hanschen wanted to admit it, it was love.

***

Okay, I must admit, it got a tad emotional back there. Am I sorry? Not in the slightest. I’m only writing down what the boys had felt after all. Retch-worthy sap or a lie? Pick your poison.

But let's take a break from those two for a moment. We know about Hanschen inside the house, Hanschen’s life with his hidden Jew, but what about outside? Without Ernst?

Let's see.

“Are you...crying?” The dark-haired girl looked like she had just seen a ghost, and, if we're being honest here, Hanschen showing any signs of feelings was about as rare and frightening as you could get without any glimpses of the undead.

“No, Wendla, I’m fine,” Hanschen protested, wiping two obvious stray tears from his eyes. “I’m tired is all.”

“No, you're crying.” That Wendla. He hated to admit it, but she was always right. And she always knew what to do.

This time, “knowing what to do” involved calling every one of her friends over to go look.

“Guys, can you believe this? Hanschen's having an _emotion_!”

“Oh, fuck off,” the blond protested, soon regretting it. As petty as she might be, Wendla did not deserve to be cursed out by anyone.

“You're serious?” Thea exclaimed, running over and thus catching the attention of numerous other people behind her. “I didn't know he was capable!” She turned around. “Anna, are you seeing this?”

“I sure am,” the girl said, stifling a laugh. “We should take a picture. Frame it. Commemorate this moment for years to come.” The three girls, along with two others, Martha and Ilse, who had just joined this bout of teasing, burst into laughter.

“Honestly, I don't see what about this is so funny,” Hanschen retorted, trying his best to put on his “I’m-better-than-you-in-every-way” façade. It didn't really work out in his favor; he ended up pulling some prissy facial expression and collapsing onto a bench, scuffing the grass with his new shoes.

What did I tell you? Walls.

Seeing that Hanschen seemed genuinely upset, Wendla riled back. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said softly, sliding in next to him. “We were just having some fun. I’m really sorry, I am.” She moved to get up, changed her mind. “And,” she added, “if you want to talk to me, to any of us, about this...whatever it is, you can. Okay?” Hanschen didn't look up. “Okay?”

Finally, the blond nodded, feeling as if he should say something more. “At least the other boys aren't here,” he managed with a chuckle. “Otherwise, I’d have been done for.”

Wendla smiled to the ground. “Truer words were never spoken,” she said. “I promise I won't tell any of them about this.”

“Not even your boyfriend?”

“Ew! Melchior? No. And he’s not...he is _not_ my boyfriend.” Hanschen believed her.

Satisfied, Wendla stood up, ran over to the circle of girls, inevitably whispered something along the lines of, “Leave him alone, teasing won't get us anywhere”, and led them out.

There’s more to these friends that we won't have time to see, of course: there’s soccer with Georg in front of Hanschen’s house, there’s French tutoring for Thea, there is, of course, countless more teasing.

But it all really comes back to the cellar, doesn't it?

That's what Hanschen had been crying about, of course, I don't doubt you figured that one out quick enough.

It always came back to Ernst.

***

So what did they do about it? What did the two lovers do?

A lot of secret-keeping, mostly.

Visits didn't become any more regular so as not to arouse suspicion, though Ernst did sometimes creep up the stairs in the dead of night when the cool of the concrete floor was just too menacing, and the allure of Hanschen’s lips was too strong.

One night, Hanschen even managed to convince his parents to let him sleep downstairs with the Jew:

“Papa, it's just one night! He must get lonely down there. We can make a bed for me out of cushions on our couch!” (A bed which, of course, would most certainly not be needed.)

The Rilows relented. The two boys didn't let go of each other all night.

By now, you may think I've lied to you. I told you our story would end sad, and there's not a speck of sadness in sight: the German and his Jew are together, happily ever after. Friends and family don't know, nor do they suspect. _Alles gut_ , is it not?

Now I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but:

It is not.

***

The news had spread around the town fairly quickly: the officers were going around, door to door, inspecting basements for depth. The Rilows, resourceful as they were, spent the twenty minutes between when the news arrived and their doorbell rang fixing Ernst’s sleeping area, making it look like nothing more than a pile of junk.

Hanschen answered when the officer knocked, and in walked your stock-standard Nazi officer: tall, with golden hair and a toned frame.

He looked gorgeous. He also looked absolutely disgusting.

Hanschen vaguely recognized him from somewhere, though he couldn't place it.

That is, until his father came striding up to him.

An air of recognition came over the officer’s face. “Karl!”

“Bobby!” Extremely friendly to the man who’s going to check your basement, where we just happen to be hiding a Jew, Hanschen thought.

Karl turned around and faced his son. “Hanschen, this is Bobby Maler. His father was one of my friends in the war.” Karl had too many friends from the war. Not wanting to die was a good bonding activity, it seemed.

Hanschen held out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you,” he lied.

“You too,” Bobby responded in the exact same tone. At least the feeling was mutual.

The officer turned to Karl once more. “One question: do you still play that accordion? My father told me all about it.”

Karl shook his head. “Oh, no; it's been years. What about you; I heard from your father you were in a band somewhere for a while?”

“Ah, indeed I was! My university’s jazz band. I played – well, I guess I still play the oboe.”

Hanschen nearly choked. The _oboe_? Jesus Christ, he was hating this kid more every minute.

Thankfully, at this point Karl’s awkward nod signaled an obvious end to the conversation.

“I should head down to the basement, I suppose,” Bobby said, clearing his throat. He made his way down the basement stairs. Each step creaked. Hanschen held his breath.

“Well,” Bobby said from the cellar, “It's certainly too shallow to use as a bomb shelter, I can tell you that. I’d say go across the street to the Neumanns’, they’ll be your best bet.”

Some clunking noises. Then, silence. Hanschen still wasn't breathing. If he found Ernst…

Hanschen could put himself back together after a lot of things. Losing Ernst would not be one of them.

“It's hard to maneuver down here, Karl! Hang on, I'm just going to shift some of these sheets down here…” Bobby’s voice trailed off. Hanschen clenched his teeth. Fucking Bobby Maler, needing to be an interior designer everywhere he went? What did he think he was doing?

By now, neither Karl nor Edith were moving as well. Their eyes were fixed on the dark of the basement.

Bobby walked up the stairs, only it didn't sound like just Bobby walking up the stairs.

“Who the hell is this?” Oh, Christ, oh, crucified Christ, he didn't…

“Mr. Maler, I can explain…”

“Listen.” Bobby was mad. Hanschen wondered how loud he could shout considering he played the oboe. He did not have to wonder for very long.

“You currently have two options: I can take you and your lovely wife here in for questioning,” Bobby said, throwing Ernst against the wall. It was evident he had been held onto by his ear. Hanschen wanted nothing more than to go over and comfort him. “And the two of you will never come back. Or,” he said, his voice getting steadily louder, “You can let him go quietly, and since I know you and you three are technically members of the Party...” Hanschen fought back a wince. “...you get off relatively scott-free. Now,” Bobby said. He was smiling. He looked downright menacing. “Which one will it be?”

“I’ll go,” Ernst said definitively. Edith opened her mouth to protest, but if the Nazis had a reason to capture a Jew, they did it. “Good. Goodbye, Karl. And don't worry,” another terrifying smile, “I will not tell my father you said hello. Let's go, _Juden_.”

“Wait…” Hanschen pleaded. Bobby turned to him, the sneer still plastered on his face. “Let me...at least say goodbye.” His voice broke.

Maler, who had resumed to holding Ernst by his ear, let the Jew go. “Fine,” he said. “But any funny business and you’ll never see your family again, _verstehst_?”

Hanschen didn’t answer, instead walked with Ernst to his bedroom.

“You can’t...I won’t let you leave.”

“Hanschen,” Ernst whispered. He had been crying as well. He shut the bedroom door softly. “Do you understand the situation we’re in? Either I go or you do. Either way, I lose you.”

“No, Ernst…”

Both boys were still crying when Ernst pulled Hanschen in for a kiss that ended far too soon. Ernst got up to go.

“No…” Hanschen exclaimed. “I...Ernst, I love you.” Like it was supposed to solve anything. Like those magical words could disband the Nazi party and get rid of the black car inevitably waiting outside their house. “I always loved you, Ernst, from the moment we…”

“Hanschen.” Ernst put his hand up to stop the boy. “Listen.” A hand on the face. “I love you too, okay? I love you so much. But.” A sigh. “Not...now. You can’t just pull it out from behind your back like it’s gonna fix this.”

“I know, I just...you never knew. You needed to know.”

The Jew bowed his head. “Okay. I understand.”

Hanschen took a deep breath. “I’m never going to...I’m never going to see you again. Ernst, what...what if you die?”

Ernst looked up. Hanschen had asked the question as a child would have: scared of the right thing for all the wrong reasons.

The Jew leaned in for one final kiss, and it was a kiss that tasted like goodbye. He then led the German out into the kitchen, offered a hug to each member of the family, and trailed Officer Bobby Maler outside.

The door opened, the door closed. Hanschen sank to the floor.

“So that’s it, then? He’s just gone?”

“Oh, honey.” Edith bent down to try and comfort her son, not really knowing how, having not seen this boy cry in a very long time.

“I’m _fine_ , Mama. I’m just…” He sighed. “I’m going to be in my room for a bit.”

***

“They just...they just take them? What do they _do_ with them?”

“I...I don’t know,” Wendla sighed, placing a hand on Hanschen’s shoulder. “I’m sorry; I wish I knew.”

“Since when are you all worked up over this, though?” Ilse chimed in, leaning over across the table. “What does it matter to you?”

Wendla, sure that this wasn't going over without a fight, saved Hanschen’s hide. “It doesn't matter,” she said calmly. “It just happens to mean something to him, and he's allowed to feel that way."

“Yeah, but…” Ilse looked in both directions, as if there were Nazi officers in their schoolyard. “We're not gonna win this; you know that, right?”

Hanschen looked at the girl, confused.

“The Americans, the Russians; they're too strong. We _can't_ win.”

Hanschen looked down at his lunch. “You think so?”

“I do.”

The boy stood up from the table, walked away.

The part of the conversation he didn't hear:

“Thanks for making that up.”

“Yeah.” Silence. “Do you think there's the possibility that we  _could_ win?”

Ilse sighed. “Yeah; a good one too.”

“Well, it was nice of you to look out for him like that.”

“...Wendla?”

“Hmm?”

“What _do_ they do to them? The Jews, I mean.”

Wendla hung her head. “They send them away,” she said, each word measured and thought-out, “and make sure they don't come back.”

*** 

The train platform seemed to shiver in the cold. A blond boy stood in the back, writing in a journal.

**_Hanschen’s diary, November 1945_ **

_So many damn records, so many census bureaus – I almost gave up._

_But I couldn't, though, not really. I wouldn't let myself._

_Even if he was dead, I had to know._

_And somehow he wasn't dead. He was alive. With an address, that I could write to._

_So I wrote: pages and pages of letters and notes, and things I was too afraid to say._

_And he responded, and he’s real, and I can't believe this whole damn story actually happened._

I skipped ahead. Sorry. Let me make it up to you: I'll tell you what happened. What you missed.

Hanschen Rilow spent the three years between Ernst’s leaving and the train station researching, scouring every records book and census he could find, gathering information on every camp in the nation to see if any called their inmates by more than a number (none did).

Excessive? Sure. Unrealistic? Crazy? Absolutely.

But the boy was in love. Can you really blame him?

**_Hanschen’s diary, September 1945_ **

_I found him. My God, I found Ernst._

_The war hasn’t even been over two weeks and I've already found him; how lucky is that?_

_His address was listed below his name in the records, and I nearly cried in public. I’m going to write him. I need to write him; it's been…too long. Far too long._

And write Hanschen did:

**_Letter from Hanschen Rilow to Ernst Robel, September 1945_ **

_Ernst,_

_I suppose the first thing I should do is introduce myself. It's unlikely you'll remember me, and if you don't you may stop this contact with me at any time._

_My name is Hanschen Rilow, and my family helped hide you from November 1941 to April 1942. We also technically caused you to get captured, so maybe we didn't do such a good job._

_I’m so, so sorry about that, I really am. I felt – I still feel – horrible about what we must have caused you, and I can't begin to imagine the torture you went through at whatever hellhole they sent you to._

_I should've gone with you; I'm so, so sorry. I need you to know that; it kills me when I think about it because I wanted nothing more than to keep you safe and then...well, then you were all of a sudden so incredibly not safe and there was indeed something I could do about it but I couldn't bring myself to confess._

_So here we are._

_I’m so terribly sorry if this letter makes you uncomfortable, or if what I'm about to ask makes you uncomfortable in any way. But...well, since you were...captured I suppose is the right word, you never left my mind for a minute._

_I saw you everywhere, and I missed you everywhere. No, no; I see you everywhere, I miss you everywhere still. So I suppose what I'm getting at is I’d like to meet up again._

_And if you don't want to, that's perfectly all right, but if you'd like to…_

_I’d love to see your face again._

_Write back; I want to hear from you._

_Yrs. forever,_

_Haschen_

**_Letter from Ernst Robel to Hanschen Rilow, September 1945_ **

_Hanschen –_

_I can't believe I'm really writing to you again; it seems like it was centuries ago I last saw you._

_And, as I suppose you're wondering, I haven't forgotten about you at all; in fact, quite the opposite. I miss you, it seems, just as much as you miss me._

_Before we get anything else out of the way, I forgive you for what happened to me. No, that makes it sound as if I was mad at you, which I never was. I never blamed you for what happened, and it would have killed me had you taken my blame._

_In any case, I would love it more than anything if we were to meet up again._

_Again, I miss you. Know that._

_Yours,_

_Ernst_

Thus a chain of letters began, lasting over a month and a half, leading up to now, at the shivering platform where Hanschen sat hunched over a journal, waiting for a train, waiting for Ernst.

And here it comes now, brakes screeching in the winter air.

A boy hopped off, light brown hair a mess. He looked around with wide doe eyes until he came face-to-face with a blond German in a jacket just to small for him.

The two practically ran at each other, would have kissed right there in the station if they could. Both were sobbing, both were smiling.

So I lied.

This story does have a happy ending; big deal.

You made it this far; I figured I’d reward you.

And besides, I don’t write the story, I simply tell it.

“Hanschen,” Ernst breathed, half crying, half laughing. “I didn’t think...I never thought...I missed you so much…”

“And I you,” Hanschen managed, words all of a sudden failing him.

The crowds of people seemed to be moving in fast motion around the couple, still locked in a warm embrace that, if a passerby happened to glance at them for more than a second, was too close for just friends. The boys didn’t care, as those in love often don’t.

*** 

“Where the hell are they?” The window was wide open, curtains blowing in the breeze, and air smelled like flowers, and summer, and Europe.

“I don’t know. They said three...maybe their train was delayed.”

“Well we can’t have that, can we Hanschen?”

“Have what?”

“More time to ourselves.” He could swear Ernst winked, an action normally considered unforgivable when the perpetrator is not the most beautiful boy in the world.

“Oh, my God, Ernst…” The doorbell rang then, thank goodness. Ten minutes longer and the couple would have been in no state to answer the door.

“Come in! It’s open!”

In marched what could easily have been a dozen people. (Ernst would later be informed it was only eight, which was met by the accusation that Melchior took up two people easy.)

The chorus of “hellos” and “how-are-yous” began, as did the exchange of various bottles of wine, flower bouquets, and, in the case of Wendla Bergmann, a box of assorted chocolates.

“I was originally just going to buy you wine,” she explained, “but these ones had rose oil in them! Only in Paris…”

“So this is Ernst?” Thea asked, sidling up to the brunet with caution. “Way you described him, I thought he’d be a lot cuter.” She looked him up and down again. “And shorter.” This was met with a punch to the arm by Wendla, Martha, and Hanschen all at once.

Ernst, meanwhile, was really just standing there, taking it all in. At one point, he managed to pull his boyfriend aside. “ _These_ are your friends?”

“...And?”

“There’s...there’s so _many_ of them! And what’s...oh, hello…” Ernst turned around to find himself face-to-face with Melchior Gabor.

“So you’re the new kid?” He popped a cigarette, lit it. “I like you.”

“Um.”

Another boy, shorter than Melchior, walked up behind him. “Hey, leave him be for like two seconds, Melchi, would you?” The shorter boy held out his hand. “I’m Moritz. Stiefel. Over there’s Melchior.” He leaned in close and fake-whispered, “He’s a troublemaker.” The two boys walked away, and Ernst was then introduced to a seemingly inseparable gaggle of girls, all of which were presumably whispering about him.

One of them finally stepped forward, a pretty girl with shoulder-length dark hair and bright eyes. “I’m Wendla,” she said, holding out her hand. Ernst was unsure whether he should shake it or kiss it. Wendla answered his question by grabbing his hand and shaking it fast. She then managed to get the attention of the rest of her friends, still whispering. The girls introduced themselves one by one: Ilse, Thea, Anna, Martha. All that was left were two boys chatting near the front door of their apartment. Hanschen grabbed Ernst’s hand and led him up to them.

“Hansi!” the shorter of the two cried, his hands up in the air. He pulled Hanschen in for a big hug. “How’s it going? I can’t believe you can see the Eiffel Tower _from your window_!”

“Um.” Hanschen cleared his throat. “Yes, the pricing for this street is incredibly cheap, but before we get into real estate, why don’t you two introduce yourselves?”

“Oh, of course,” the short man said, his eyes still as excited as when he first hugged Hanschen. “I’m Otto, and that’s Georg.” Georg offered a slight nod, then went back to staring infatuatedly at the street below. “He’s a bit crazy for Paris,” Otto explained.

Ernst turned to Hanschen. “And that’s all of them?”

Hanschen gave a small smile. “Yes, why; are they overwhelming you?”

“No,” Ernst said before giving Hanschen a peck on the lips. “They’re crazy, but I think I like them all.” A pause. “Maybe not Melchior, though.”

“Oh, yeah, everyone hates Melchior,” Hanschen said, his voice raising to a yell on the last three words, making sure Melchior could hear. There was a roar of laughter, then everyone was quiet for an awkwardly long period of time.

Moritz looked around nervously. “So...what does everyone do now,” he asked, being the only one in the room brave enough to voice his concern.

The response came from Ilse and was followed by a cheer: “Let’s break out the goddamn wine already!”

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was mainly written to stick it to andy mientus for saying that hanschen would grow up to raise nazis. i did not mean to become this invested in this story, but here we are.
> 
> i'd also like to point out that the working title for this piece was "fuck you andy mientus (alternate title: smol gay wwii au)"
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoyed it!! pls leave a comment if you did!!


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